The Defiant Governess

by Andrea Pickens

  “Peter!” Jane dropped to her knees beside Saybrook. The boy wasn’t moving at all. She took one of his small hands and began chaffing it between her own. The Marquess’s breath was coming in ragged gulps and he hadn’t taken his eyes from the small body before him

  “Dear God,” he whispered. “Is he...”

  “No!” cried Jane. She had felt a faint pulse but the boy’s face looked deathly pale and she had no idea how badly he was injured. “But we must get help!”

  Saybrook seemed in a daze. He didn’t react to her words and remained hunched over, one hand buried in his windblown hair.

  “Henry!” shouted Jane. “Ride for Doctor Hastings and tell him to come to Highwood immediately.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Henry didn’t wait for any word from the Marquess but set his horse into a gallop.

  “Georgie, Jack and Tim, you must ride back to the manor and have Mrs. Fairchild prepare the Blue Room and lots of hot water and clean linen ready.” Jane turned to Saybrook. “Sir, you must take Peter up with you on Hero and get him home as quickly as possible.”

  She had already noticed that his arm was bent at a strange angle and feared it was broken. What other injuries he had sustained she dared not think about. Right now it was imperative to get him into a bed and a doctor’s care.

  Saybrook looked at her blankly. “Are you sure we should move him? I...”

  “We must,” she said firmly. “And quickly.” As she spoke, her hand touched his shoulder lightly.

  That seemed to rouse him from his state of shock. He picked up Peter’s limp form and hurried to where Hero stood waiting.

  “Let me hold him while you mount.” As she took the boy, she noticed a smear of blood on Saybrook’s hand. “You’re hurt, my lord.” she exclaimed.

  “A scratch,” he said faintly as he took the boy across his lap.

  Jane watched him canter away, the motionless child cradled in his arms, looking so small, so vulnerable. She hurried to her own horse and mounted. As she urged it on towards Highwood, she began to pray.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  The surroundings were familiar to her and she was able to cut through fields and woods to reach the manor house before Saybrook arrived with Peter. The servants were clustered near the main entrance, somber and awaiting further instructions concerning the young master. Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes were already red from crying, but Jane noted everything she had ordered was in readiness. The Blue Room, the bedroom nearest the stairs was ready to receive the injured child. There was nothing to do but wait. Jane did so impatiently, pacing up and down the hall in silence. It was with great relief that she saw the doctor’s curricle coming up the drive at a smart pace.

  At the same time, Jane saw Hero approaching and she rushed to meet both of them. A groom led the curricle away and Doctor Hastings came to stand with her to await his patient. Jane had met him once before, when he had been summoned to treat Cook for a nasty fall she taken down the cellar stairs. She had liked him at once, and knew he had a fine reputation as a medical man. She slipped him a sidelong glance as she waited nervously, taking in his erect bearing, his close cropped silver hair and whiskers and his clear hazel eyes which hinted at intelligence and a sense of humor. It was a reassuring picture. And he didn’t disappoint her image. Even before Saybrook had brought his tired horse to a halt, the Doctor had quietly told two footmen to take Peter, instructing them exactly how to hold the injured child.

  “This way, Doctor,” called Mrs. Fairchild.

  As Jane turned to follow, she noticed that Saybrook dismounted stiffly and appeared to stumble as he started to walk to the house. But then the Doctor was fast disappearing and she hurried to catch up.

  * * * *

  At the doorway to the Blue Room, Doctor Hastings turned and raised his hand to the people behind him. “I will examine the boy alone, if you please,” he announced firmly. “If I need assistance, I will call Miss—”his eyes searched for Jane—“Langley, is it?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Your pardon, Your Lordship, but you and the others will only be in the way.”

  Saybrook stood at the head of the stairs, his arm clutching the newel post as if he were in need of physical support. He acknowledged the doctor’s words with a brief nod.

  The door closed.

  * * * *

  “You may all go back to your duties.” Jane spoke quietly to the two footman and anxious parlormaid who had accompanied the them upstairs. Turning to Mrs. Fairchild, she continued, “Perhaps it would be best if we had some chairs brought...”

  A cry of alarm interrupted her and she turned to see that Saybrook had fainted dead away onto the landing. With a sharp intake of breath, she rushed to where his crumpled form lay. As she gently turned him onto his back, his coat fell away from his side. Mrs. Fairchild screamed. His waistcoat was soaked in blood and a jagged gash in the cloth revealed an ugly wound at his ribs.

  “Hot water, linen bandages and basilicum powder! Now!” ordered Jane, hoping her tone would spur the older woman into action. “James, Charles, get His Lordship to his bed.”

  Fortunately, the two footman were sturdy fellows and able to lift the marquess without difficulty. His bedchamber was just across the hallway, and Jane hurried them in. She flung back the covers on the massive carved oak bed and had them lay the prostrate body on the fresh linen sheets.

  “Ease his boots off, please,” she called as she placed a pillow under his head. “One of you fetch a pair of scissors—and a bottle of brandy.” All the while, her hand was unconsciously smoothing the dark hair back from his pale forehead.

  Two maids arrived with a basin of hot water and a tray of medicines. Someone had thought to include a knife. Without waiting for the scissors, Jane began cutting away Saybrook’s upper garments. She was not a total stranger to violent accidents and the sight of blood. At home she had sometimes accompanied Nanna, whose skills included nursing, on her visits to some of the surrounding tenants. Unbeknownst to her father, she had helped Nanna treat all manner of farm accidents, from broken limbs to severed fingers. It was hardly proper for a young lady of refinement, but she had felt useful.

  Even so, she blanched and felt faint herself as she got his shirt off and saw the deep wound between his ribs. With trembling hands, she took a clean cloth and sponged the blood and gore from his chest. The bleeding had slowed considerably and she prayed that he had not lost too much. The very idea spurred her to work faster. She folded a length of linen into a soft pad and covered the wound, applying a good amount of pressure with the heel of her hand. After a few minutes, she took it away and, satisfied that the flow was stanched, doused the jagged gash with a liberal amount of basilicum powder.

  “James, lift his shoulders—carefully, now.”

  As the footman eased Saybrook up, Jane made another pad and wrapped it in place with a long length of bandage. She glanced around the spacious room, taking in the elegant dressing table and tasteful furnishings until her eye came to a large dresser.

  “Find me a clean shirt, Mary,” she said the one of the maids, who knew exactly which drawer to open.

  Jane slipped the garment around Saybrook’s arms, leaving it open in front, then motioned for the footman to ease him back down to the pillow. The white linen sheets accentuated the pallor of his skin underneath his light tan. Now that she had a moment to think, Jane felt afraid. She grasped his wrist, seeking a pulse. It was there, but weak, erratic.

  “One of you knock on the Blue Room door and let the doctor know he is needed in here too as soon as he is done with Peter. The rest of you may go.”

  Her hand had kept hold of Saybrook’s, the fingers slipping from the wrist to entwine with his senseless ones. They were cold as marble. She pressed her lips together. Dear God, she thought, he cannot...”

  Saybrook’s eyes fluttered open. “Peter…?” he breathed faintly.

  Jane grasped his hand tighter. “The doctor is with him now.”

  He made a m
ovement as if to rise but sunk back with an involuntary gasp. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and his eyes narrowed with pain. Jane bent close to his head. “You mustn’t try to move, sir,” she whispered as she sponged his face with a clean cloth. “I shall take care of Peter—I promise you I will.”

  Saybrook tried to speak again, yet she couldn’t make out his words. The effort proved too much for his waning strength and he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  “I see we have another patient.”

  Jane rose quickly, hoping the doctor wouldn’t notice the tears in her eyes, and stepped back from the edge of the bed to allow him room. He threw back the open shirt and nodded in approval at Jane’s bandage.

  “A good job, Miss Langley. Do you have experience in nursing?”

  “A little, sir.”

  “Well, it seems we shall need it.” He pulled a chair closer and opened his black bag. “I shall have to remove your handiwork so that I may examine the wound...” His voice trailed off as he began to work. With a deft snip of his scissors, he removed the bandages. His brow furrowed at the sight of the ripped flesh. “Nasty,” he muttered as he bent low to listen to Saybrook’s shallow breathing and to probe gently around his side.

  Jane clenched her hands together, unaware that the nails were drawing blood.

  “Well,” announced Doctor Hastings as he straightened up. “The horn appears to have missed the lung. I think two of the ribs are broken so he will have to be kept quite still so they don’t cause any damage. He is lucky.”

  Jane let her breath out slowly.

  “However,” continued the doctor, “it is not the wound itself that concerns me most, it is the danger of infection. The next twenty-four hours are critical. If a fever develops, we shall have reason to worry.”

  “I will do anything that is necessary,” said Jane.

  He nodded. “I believe he is in good hands.” Reaching into his black bag he withdrew an amber bottle and placed it on the night table. “Tincture of laudanum. He will be in great pain if he wakes during the night. Try to give him six drops in a glass of water every three hours.” He also placed a jar of salve next to it. “The bandage should be changed every few hours and this should be applied to the wound.” There was a pause as he looked searchingly at Jane’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire a woman from the village who is experienced in the sickroom?”

  “No!” Jane hoped she didn’t sound too shrill. “I should rather do it myself, truly.” She took a deep breath.” And Peter?

  The doctor’s look of concern didn’t lessen as he rebandaged Saybrook’s side. “I have set his broken arm, but he has not regained consciousness. Head injuries are very difficult to diagnose. Hard as it may sound, we must simply wait and see. He may come round in an hour, or a week or...”

  “I see.”

  “You must send for me at any time if there is a change. Otherwise, I shall call first thing in the morning. And you must allow someone to help you.” He regarded the hollows under her eyes with concern. “Or else I shall have three patients on my hands.” He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder and flashed a smile of encouragement. “It shall all come right, Miss. Good day.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Hastings.”

  Jane sunk into the chair the doctor had vacated. For a moment she was assailed by an overwhelming sense of despair. But then she set it aside, her jaw set in defiance of the odds. “I won’t let them go,” she whispered to the darkened room. “I won’t!”

  * * * *

  “Miss Jane?” A candle flickered in the darkness and Jane snapped her head upright. “You must take a bite to eat, my dear, and lie down for a proper sleep. I shall sit with His Lordship while you do.” Mrs. Fairchild hovered by her chair with a tray of food sent up by Cook.

  “No, I’m awake—I must have just dozed off for a bit.” Jane straightened slightly in the chair and looked at Saybrook. He was still sleeping though his breathing sounded even more erratic. She reached over to feel his forehead. “Oh dear, he feels so hot. Do you think so, too?”

  Mrs. Fairchild touched his brow. “Yes, it does seem warm. But come, I can do that,” she added as she watched Jane sponge his face with cool water. She waited for a minute, then placed the tray on the night table with a sigh. “At least keep up your strength.”

  Jane smiled. “I shall, as soon as I check on Peter.”

  Mrs. Fairchild followed her from the room. “Mary is with him now. She knows to call you if anything changes.”

  “I know, but I want to see him myself.”

  Peter looked almost lost in the huge four poster bed, his tiny form a mere smudge on the snowy sheets. His splinted arm lay outside the coverlet across his chest, which rose and fell with reassuring regularity. But still he had shown no signs of regaining consciousness.

  “At least he shows no sign of fever,” murmured Jane.

  “No, Miss Jane, he’s been right comfortable, if only he’d open his eyes.”

  Jane’s hand caressed his cheek. “We must be patient—and pray.”

  * * * *

  Saybrook was tossing feverishly when Jane and Mrs. Fairchild returned to his room, his arm thrashing about at the covers, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. He was burning to the touch and Jane was gripped with a stabbing fear.

  “Send for Doctor Hastings!” she cried as she lifted his head and put the glass of laudanum-laced water to his parched lips. He managed to swallow some of the liquid. After a few minutes it seemed to ease some of the discomfort and he became quieter. Jane took the opportunity to change the bandage, noting with alarm that the edges of the wound looked even more red and inflamed.

  The shirt he was wearing was soaked with sweat so she stripped it off. As she unfolded a fresh one she couldn’t help but be aware of his broad, muscular chest, the chiseled contour of his stomach and the intriguing curls of dark hair, both across his breast and at his narrow hips, where they disappeared into the top of his breeches.

  She had never seen a man so undressed before. There was a stirring deep inside at his rampant masculinity. Her hand lingered on his chest, brushing lightly over his undamaged ribs to the hollow of his stomach where it rested just for a moment. She found herself wondering what it would have been like if she had accepted his carte blanche. She could have been lying in these very sheets with his arms around her, his lean, hard body pressed tight to hers. A part of her longed to experience the strength of his arms and the fire of his kisses. She thought back to his kiss. Yes, she wanted more. A deep sigh escaped her lips. But she wanted more than just his passion. She wanted his love.

  * * * *

  Saybrook began talking in his sleep, mostly unintelligible mutterings but occasionally a discernable word.

  “No!” A gasp. “You mustn’t!”

  Jane touched his cheek. “It’s alright, sir.” she whispered.

  “Father!” he groaned. “No!” He began tossing so violently that she could hardly hold his shoulders down. “No! No!” Then quite softly, “Jane.”

  “I’m here, sir. I won’t leave you.”

  The tension seemed to drain from his body and he fell into a fitful sleep.

  * * * *

  Doctor Hastings finally arrived. After a quick examination, he rose, shaking his head slightly. “It is as I feared. The fever has taken hold and we can only hope that his constitution proves strong enough to weather it.” He looked at the frightened faces of Jane and Mrs. Fairchild as he reached into his bag and took out a bottle of medicine. “You must try to get him to swallow a dose of this every two hours. It is of utmost importance. Now shall I send a woman from the village?”

  Jane shook her head doggedly.

  The doctor regarded the dark circles under her eyes, then the determined thrust of her jaw. “Very well, then. I shall call again in the morning.”

  * * * *

  Jane sat upright in the chair, rubbing the sleep—what little there had been—from her eyes. The fever had been going on for over two days.
At times it raged, forcing her to call for assistance in holding the writhing Marquess to his bed. Then there were periods when it seemed to slacken, allowing him some fitful rest. She had managed to get the medicine down him, but she was beginning to doubt its efficacy. With each visit, the doctor merely pursed his lips and muttered that they must wait, that the climax would come soon when the fever either broke or...

  Jane splashed some water on her drawn face. She was tired of waiting. She felt so helpless watching him suffer so. Perhaps Doctor Hastings wasn’t as skilled as they thought. Perhaps they should send to London for a specialist? A quick glance towards the bed showed that Saybrook’s face was more pallid than ever, and he seemed smaller, as if his ravaged body were wasting away in front of her. At least, for the moment, he was resting quietly.

  * * * *

  “Miss Jane!” Mary hurried into the room. “It’s Master Peter! He’s opened his eyes. And he spoke! He asked for you.”

  Jane rushed to the boy’s chamber.

  “Miss Jane, I’m thirsty,” He tried to throw his arms around her neck. “Oh! And my arm hurts!”

  “Yes, I know, love,” she soothed, as she settled the broken limb. “You’ve been a very brave boy, but now you must keep still so your arm can mend.” She motioned for Mary to pour a glass of water, then added three drops of laudanum as Doctor Hastings had advised. “Now drink this and you’ll feel better.”

  Peter took a sip and made a face. “It tastes awful. I don’t want it.”

  “Your uncle has to drink it too, and he doesn’t complain.” Jane decided a half lie wouldn’t hurt.

  The boy looked at the glass for a moment, then swallowed the rest without further complaint. “Uncle Edward was coming to get me, wasn’t he? I don’t remember anything more. What happened after that.”

  “Yes, he was. He saved you from the bull, but not before it knocked you down.

  “Did the bull knock Uncle Edward down too?”